


The Porcupine

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Anger, Angst, Biting, Bitterness, Blood, Denial, Depression, Established Relationship, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Multi, Poor Life Choices, Sadness, Sneakiness, Unrequited Love, Yearning, dysfunction, tortious interference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9536618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: McCoy realizes he's been cruel to Spock with all his insults and decides to make amends.  This leads to a variety of unwanted epiphanies....





	

"The porcupine, whom one must handle gloved, may be respected, but never loved.” --Arthur Guiterman

****

McCoy is a scientist; he sees patterns. It’s what he does. After a year or two of working together, he recognizes a pattern between himself and Spock. 

It’s a simple pattern, and he suspects it’s psychologically significant.

He watches for a while. He tests his hypothesis. He gathers evidence. He researches possible reasons for the pattern, possible interpretations.

The pattern is this: whenever he’s feeling soft and kind with Spock, Spock’s sharp and harsh with him. Whenever Spock’s vulnerable with McCoy, McCoy’s quick to deliver a cutting word, an attack, a barbed criticism.

They’re never kind to each other at the same time.

After Magna Roma, that starts to bother McCoy. After all, Spock did save his life. After all, McCoy’s attempt to offer thanks for Spock’s help in defending his life was sincere. After all… he knows, now, that Spock has feelings. That he worried for Jim. That he was so upset he couldn’t sit still, attacking the bars of the cage with desperation bordering on obsession. 

He’s looked into Spock’s dark, hooded eyes and seen a depth of feeling that means McCoy has been cruel without understanding, dismissive and unfair over and over again, sometimes even mean. All because he wanted to provoke a reaction he thought Spock didn’t have to give. 

He sits back quietly with a glass of brandy in his quarters one night and tries to psychoanalyze himself. He does want to provoke a reaction; that much is clear. But what reaction? Why? 

If he wants to get a rise out of Spock, well, he’s done that. Spock’s taken the bait many times, enough that Spock’s defensive response to McCoy is swift and automatic. He responds with sharp humor, with asperity, even with subtle anger. If McCoy wanted to prove Spock has the capacity to feel defensive, even angry, he’s done it.

So why isn’t he satisfied? Maybe because he hasn’t provoked the response he actually wanted. Not from the very beginning, when he walked onto the bridge for the first time and saw that aristocratic profile, that lean, spare body, that perfect raven-black hair-- and felt himself judged and found lacking when the inevitable eyebrow went up. He’s wanted Spock’s approval, his kindness, his respect, and his trust, all of it from the minute he laid eyes on the man.

He knew he wouldn’t get it; he was ready for that. So when it wasn’t offered automatically, he did the exact opposite of what was required to earn it. He remembers raising a haughty brow right back at Spock when he saw the lack of welcome there, the lack of friendliness. “Oh, a Vulcan,” he’d said. “And here I thought we already had a ship’s computer. I guess you’re the back-up.”

“Doctor.” Jim’s tone had warned him, but he hadn’t listened. “Mr. Spock, this is Leonard McCoy, our new ship’s surgeon. Dr. McCoy, this is Mr. Spock, first officer and science officer of the Enterprise. Ideally, you’ll be working closely together.”

“Doctor,” Spock had said frostily and returned to his work without further acknowledgment-- and their relationship had developed from there, vocally adversarial more often than not. The only positive emotion they’d developed between them since was a grudging respect for one another’s abilities. While they do work together a good deal of the time, theirs can hardly be described as a close relationship.

That’s harder to swallow for McCoy, unlike the brandy, which goes down too smoothly and in excessive quantity, threatening to make him maudlin. Or maybe it’s just the train of his thoughts that makes him sad. He remembers how hurt he felt when he tried to thank Spock for saving his life and Spock passed it off as nothing, a logical snap decision demonstrating Spock’s reluctance to compromise the efficiency of the damn ship-- based only on his respect for Leonard’s skill-set, not any regard for him as a person or a friend.

And yet he’s said equally hurtful things to Spock in his day; lots of them. He remembers accusing Spock of not knowing what to do with a warm, decent feeling-- and he remembers meaning it; it was a jab intended to hurt Spock for refusing to acknowledge whatever small degree of friendship McCoy hoped they had developed. 

He’s used racial slurs dozens of times. He’s called Spock a computer over and over again, accused him of wanting to steal Jim’s command, used innumerable ad hominem attacks. Ninety percent of the good things he’s said about Spock he’s said to Jim, and Spock couldn’t have overheard more than a couple of those.

So yeah, they snap and bite at each other, and it’s a situation McCoy has caused himself. If he’d treated Spock like Jim does, maybe Spock would smile at him too-- that soft little half-smile that lights up his eyes without moving his mouth much at all. Maybe Spock would say “you’re welcome” when McCoy thanks him instead of refusing to validate McCoy’s gratitude.

McCoy studies the bottom of his empty glass, disturbed by his own insights. Disturbed by his own cruelty. Disturbed because… because none of those soft little barely-there smiles Spock gives to Jim ever get aimed at him, and that hurts Leonard more than he wants to admit. 

He’s probably wasting his time, but he decides he’ll break the pattern wide open and see what happens.

It takes a while to get a chance at it, of course. Spock’s learned to be wary around him; Spock’s learned to keep his shields up. Leonard’s sharp tongue has been just as ruthlessly efficient in keeping Spock on the defensive as his medical skill is in keeping people alive when they wind up in sickbay.

*****

First McCoy sets and baits a trap, trying to lure Spock in. It’s a have-a-heart trap, like his uncle used on pesky raccoons when he was a boy. McCoy chuckles to himself, sitting in the ship’s lounge at a table located directly in front of the main screen. He hates it here. 

Spock loves it; this is his favorite seat. He comes here regularly. 

McCoy can hear the quiet behind him as Spock arrives. The first officer surveys the seating area and contemplates whether it’s worthwhile to engage in the customary hostilities. McCoy hopes Spock will come on in. He’d like to try to have an actual conversation; he’s read up on half a dozen scientific developments and plans to bring a few of them up for discussion.

Spock decides against it, turning around and retreating. 

McCoy’s drink doesn’t taste very good anymore. After he finishes it, he fucks off to his quarters to sulk and figure out a new approach.

*****

He starts smaller next time, neglecting to take jabs at Spock’s anatomy the next time he has him confined down in sickbay. He stops making any racially insensitive remarks, in fact-- including the ones about emotions and computers. And just in case that’s not obvious enough, he decides to try catching flies with honey instead of vinegar.

*****

“That makes a lot of sense,” McCoy says and hears the world around him come to a standstill as the whole bridge turns to boggle at him, Jim and Spock included. McCoy plays innocent, pretending he hasn’t noticed. 

“Doctor?” Jim prods him. 

“Spock’s right; we shouldn’t do it the way I suggested before. We might move faster if we try to spray the curative throughout the whole atmosphere, but we’ll waste a lot of time synthesizing enough chemicals for an atmospheric drop, and we might do inadvertent environmental damage along with curing the plague. I’m sure Spock has a better idea for an efficient delivery vector.” He isn’t sure whether he means it as a challenge or as a statement of faith that Spock won’t simply leave the Hamalki to suffer. Either way, he’s pretty sure the plague isn’t going to take many more people before Spock comes up with a solution.

There’s definitely stunned silence from every side; Spock’s brow goes up. “I do not have a better suggestion at the moment, but I will of course endeavor to supply one.”

“I’ll be working on getting enough of the curative made to distribute when you come up with a vector, then.” McCoy bounces a little. “That all, Jim? I’ve got urgent work to do.” People are still staring, but as he goes, Sulu and Chekov turn back to the helm and Uhura returns to poking at her console.

After a few hours Spock decides the best alternative is to transport the curative into community wells and let the citizens themselves take care of dispersing it. “The water may taste peculiar for approximately twelve point seven days, but there isn’t any surface water available as an alternative. The natives will be forced to consume the cure,” Spock states, his voice neutral, waiting for McCoy to find fault.

“Sounds good. We’ve produced approximately a metric fuckton of the curative agent-- that’s a thousand milligrams in Earth units. I’m sure we can synthesize some kind of osmotic membrane to store it in for beamdown that’ll let it leach out into the wells and load them up,” McCoy says. “We should be ready to start distributing it in an hour.”

“I will have a set of dispersal coordinates prepared by that time.”

“Perfect.” McCoy signs off, waving Chapel off to start figuring out how to package the stuff up in biodegradable osmotic film.

He can’t always guarantee he’ll agree with Spock, but he vows to make interactions like this the standard instead of the exception. 

*****

The next time Spock plays his lyre in the recreation area, Bones doesn’t make any snippy comments. He isn’t exactly able to tap his toe and sing along, but he doesn’t complain, either. When the music’s over and Spock and Jim start a game of chess, he pulls up a seat and watches. They’re both head and shoulders beyond him when it comes to strategy; he can’t see what either of them are really up to until the last few moves. It becomes apparent that Jim’s chased Spock into a stalemate; all he can do is move his pieces back and forth in the same little pattern to escape capture. 

Spock gives Jim a nod. “I resign,” he says politely. 

“I’d say that was a good game if I were qualified to judge, which I’m not,” McCoy says, stretching and cracking his back. “I thought you had him about halfway in, Spock, but Jim’s a sneaky bastard. Better luck next time.”

“It is a matter of skill, not luck.”

“Better skill next time, then.” McCoy chuckles, neatly stepping over the bait. He feels Spock’s eyes boring holes through him as he waves goodnight and saunters out the door. Spock’s confusion is a reward of sorts for the effort of keeping his mouth shut; at least twice just this evening Spock left openings so tempting that McCoy thought he’d explode if he didn’t get a wisecrack wedged into them. He’s been choking down his best stuff for _weeks_ now. 

*****

It’s amazing how often Spock _doesn’t_ start arguments. Oh, he’s in it to win it once they’re started, and he won’t go down without a fight, but he seems to prefer peaceful interaction to verbal sparring.

After the first couple of weeks during which McCoy follows the Biblical doctrine of “a soft answer turneth away wrath,” Spock doesn’t try to stir the pot very often. Now that McCoy doesn’t start fights either, they’ve hit a strange state of truce. 

“Doctor, are you feeling quite yourself lately?” Spock asks him once, apropos of nothing; they are walking alone together on a beautiful little planet where the vegetation is the vibrant purple of a king’s robe and the sky is a soft pearlescent gray. McCoy is looking for samples of medicinal plants and Spock is ostensibly helping, but McCoy knows Spock’s also standing guard over him.

“Yeah, I’m feeling fine, Spock. You?” McCoy drawls it softly, not responding to the understated sense of significance hinted at by Spock’s hesitant tone.

“I am quite well,” Spock stated. 

“Good. That’s what your doctor likes to hear.” McCoy gets out his tricorder and scans a little flowering plant. 

“I have grown concerned that you might be trying to moderate your blood pressure by avoiding stress.”

“Not in particular. Why?” McCoy sidesteps the trap gracefully. 

“Recently you seem more agreeable than usual.” Spock’s dark eyes are ready for him to bite back; Spock’s ready to rise to the challenge, ready to fight. Maybe he even misses it a little. 

“No, I’m not,” McCoy lies, smirking, and is rewarded when a distinct sparkle of humor invades Spock’s rich, brown gaze as he raises his eyebrow.

“I stand corrected.” Spock stands relaxed, if McCoy’s any judge. The tension in him isn’t brittle like it has been sometimes in the past. 

“You _are_ standing on a plant I need to scan,” McCoy admits.

“I beg your pardon.” Spock moves aside. 

“Thank you,” McCoy says automatically, kneeling down to run his tricorder over the damaged foliage. It emits a pleasant, minty smell. 

“You are welcome,” Spock says, but by the time McCoy looks up, startled and pleased, he’s moved away, tending to his own duties. 

*****

The sensation of Spock’s eyes following McCoy happens frequently after that. McCoy knows Spock’s still wary, still waiting for all this to run its course, for this experiment or trap or whatever it is to expire and for things to return to normal. Jim doesn’t trust this new amicable version of his CMO either; he’s protective of Spock and wary on Spock’s behalf, watching Bones carefully, trying to figure out what he’s up to. 

McCoy vows to maintain the patience of a saint-- one of those medieval-era saints who decided to spend the rest of his life sitting on top of a wall dispensing wisdom. Or was it saints who let themselves be bricked up inside a wall and talked to people through a little hole like a priest? He can’t remember. Maybe both. 

He holes up in his cabin and writes down all the unused zingers he didn’t say out loud during the away mission. They join the ones he thought up on the bridge yesterday, the ones from when Spock came down to sickbay the day before, and the ones from when he and Spock and Jim played three-handed canasta together a week ago. Somehow they don’t seem as funny later as they did in the moment.

There’s only so much you can do with variations on “pointy-eared logic-loving green-blooded emotionless circuit-board of a computer,” after all. It’s past time he got some new material.

*****

McCoy tries the lounge again after about six months, seating himself in Spock’s favorite spot. When Spock arrives he finds McCoy sitting there, relaxing, with a glass of tea in his hand.

This time Spock comes in and approaches the table. “Would you be averse to me occupying this seat?” It’s about the most awkward ‘may I sit here’ McCoy’s heard since he was twelve and witnessed his little sister trying to wangle her way into sitting at the popular girls’ table for high school lunch. 

“Why not? Let me go get you something,” McCoy offers when Spock is seated. “Vulcan tea?”

Spock raises a brow and gives a faint nod. McCoy goes.

That night, they sit there and look out at the warp bubble together and talk off and on about the latest innovations in brain-scanning technology. Vulcan scientists think they’ve isolated the electrical frequency for telepathic contact and are considering the possibilities for creating telepathic machines that will respond to commands without the need for any physical manipulation whatsoever. It’s a topic McCoy feels very passionately about, and he and Spock manage to muster some heat without aiming much of it at one another.

“The potential consequences if it’s misused could be devastating!” McCoy insists. “What if someone programs a machine to perform mental invasions? It’ll be just like that Klingon mind sifter, only self-directing!” He surreptitiously pushes his thumb against the anti-nausea pressure point in his left wrist and is grateful for the stomach-calming properties of the peppermint in his tea. 

“Indeed, that is a troublesome question-- and it is almost certain that someone will do so. All technological innovation has the potential for ethical misuse. The greater question is whether the benefits of the technology will outweigh its potential for misuse. In any case, this discovery is a type of Pandora’s box; once discovered, such a capability is difficult to repress. Therefore, perhaps we should make the most of it.”

“I can’t agree that we should use this discovery, Spock.” McCoy shakes his head without rancor; he’s had about enough of looking out at the warp bubble for one evening. “And don’t tell me what a godsend it would’ve been for, say, Christopher Pike. I already know it would.”

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few... or the one,” Spock said thoughtfully. “But I am hopeful that this innovation will not be misused against the many.”

“You have more faith in sentient beings than I do, then. But I do agree these scientists won’t un-discover their new information just because I don’t like it. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens and pick up the pieces after it does, I guess.”

“We are fortunate that you are particularly good at such things,” Spock says very smoothly, and Bones laughs, as embarrassed as he is pleased. 

“Thanks for the compliment. Keep me posted on what they do with it-- but for tonight, it’s past my bedtime. G’night, Spock.” He takes his empty glass back to the bar and leaves it to be cleaned. 

The next time, Spock doesn’t hesitate before seating himself to chat.

The time after that, Spock comes early, and a glass of peppermint-laced iced tea stands waiting on the little table when McCoy arrives.

It’s a shock. He stands for a moment, looking down at it, and a strange feeling wells in him, warm and embarrassingly fluttery in his stomach. Spock has anticipated their conversation and prepared for it.

He sits down with a smile, trying not to let on how touched he is, and they get right down to the business of planning how best to coordinate their departments for an upcoming research venture.

“You are uncomfortable here,” Spock observes the fourth time they meet.

“I get spacesick,” McCoy admits. 

Spock is quiet, considering the implications of that revelation. “Thus the mint in your tea.”

“It’s a good old folk remedy.” McCoy takes a sip, regarding the view calmly. If he stares at things that seem far away, the nausea doesn’t build as quickly.

“I will be in the recreation room at this time tomorrow,” Spock observes, seemingly apropos of nothing, and McCoy nods idly, his attention fixed on the far distance.

After some deliberation on whether Spock’s statement was intended as an invitation, McCoy ventures to go the next day and finds Spock waiting for him. Spock greets him with enthusiasm and they put their heads together. Under Jim Kirk’s watchful eye, they finish the plans for how to allocate resources during their upcoming research project regarding interrelationships among the crew. 

Bones realizes listening to Spock and responding to his input without defensiveness are becoming a habit. He is also startled to find that he hasn’t been thinking about _how_ to talk with Spock for at least the last hour, but their discussion is still polite. Jim has the faintest little soft smile on his face, and he’s watching them more like a benevolent uncle than a stern father. 

“I object to using this focus for statistical interpretation of our results,” Spock tells McCoy after a time. “Prurient appeal to sexual interest misdirects the readers’ attention in an unethical manner.”

McCoy just eyes him. “That may be very true, Mr. Spock. But there are 42 million alligator eggs laid every year. Of that number only 50% ever hatch. Of that number, 86% are killed before they are 36 days old. Of that number only 5% make it to one year old.”

“That would mean only 147,000 alligators survived,” Spock says, baffled. “But--”

“No,” McCoy shakes his head, serious. “That means if it weren’t for statistics, we’d be up to our asses in baby alligators.”

Spock blinks, and for an instant McCoy actually believes Spock might laugh out loud. His eyes crinkle and his lips tilt upward dangerously far.

McCoy feels his stomach lift and flip; a wild rush of endorphins surges through him as he stares at Spock, breathless, forgetting to laugh at his own joke.

“I fail to see the relevance of alligators to our research project,” Spock finally manages to intone, but his eyes are dancing with humor nonetheless. 

“When you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s very difficult to remember that your objective was to drain the swamp,” McCoy manages to wisecrack, still half out of his head with wonder at the expression on Spock’s face. 

Suddenly aware of Kirk’s intent regard, McCoy tries hastily to pull himself together. “What I’m trying to say is that we’re doing research on interpersonal dynamics between members of an isolated, mostly-human crew on a five-year deep space tour. This survey is intended for a human audience, so we should go ahead and quantify our results in terms of sexuality because most of our readers will be dying to know about it to start with. It’s not where we originally intended to focus our attention, no, but we may as well anticipate the questions we’re going to get and head them off at the pass. We can present two sets of statistics if you like, one for platonic social interactions and one for sexual relations.”

“That is agreeable, but we will have to adapt our question set to reflect the dual focus.” Spock is unexpectedly beautiful despite the harsh artificial light. Still breathless from the half-smile, McCoy admires the cut of his lips, austere and perfect, complementing the elegant sweep of jawbone, cheekbone, brow, and ear. He is made of sharp angles, mathematically perfect, a golden ratio human artists never dreamed of. 

Maybe they should have.

“Yeah. Maybe I should draft the questions,” McCoy hedges, dragging his attention back to the topic at hand and trying to picture crewmen responding to a sexual survey designed and written in stark clinical terms by Spock. “Since most of our crew is human, I can easily present the material in a relatable format.” His brain is buzzing; he needs time alone to get a leash on whatever the fuck is going on inside his head. It feels huge and terrifying and giddy and incredible. “I’ll get on that. See you again in a day or two?”

“Of course.” Spock rises when McCoy does and moves to join Jim, who is hovering nearby and tilts his head to smile at Spock. He reaches out, and McCoy watches with astonishment as Kirk’s fingers brush along Spock’s, a fleeting touch, almost too quick to spot. Spock steps closer to Kirk, leaning in to listen to whatever he has to say, and McCoy recognizes the look of that space between them-- an intimate space to which they are both obviously well-accustomed. 

The little smile is back on Spock’s lips, but not for Leonard, not this time, though Kirk has barely done anything to conjure it. The two of them are so absorbed in one another they never notice McCoy staring.

That smile, the easy lack of personal distance, the brush of fingertips-- suddenly it all adds up. It’s like looking at that damned black-and-white picture of a vase and understanding suddenly that it’s actually two faces leaning in for a kiss.

Just that fast the giddy excitement in his belly vanishes like a burst balloon, leaving McCoy hollow. He turns away in haste and makes a beeline back to his cabin, feeling like he’s been punched in the stomach. 

He holes up to try to understand the epiphany that just brought his world crashing to ruins-- and the fact that every damn thing about it is completely unexpected, beginning and ending with the idea that Spock could destroy him this easily just by being _spoken for._

But it’s true. That perfection, that beauty, that soft vulnerable person McCoy always hoped to find but has only just begun to glimpse… he is taken already; everything that is sweet and soft and tender and loving in Spock belongs to James Kirk. _Of course it does._ And McCoy is devastated, in the twinkling of an eye.

McCoy hates himself for failing to realize that _attraction_ was why he’d always responded so intensely to Spock; that’s a real kick in the teeth. _What a fucking idiot. Now I can’t even be nasty to cover my disappointment with… this. This disastrous journey from zero to warp ten to warp core breach in thirty seconds or less._

Jim and Spock together makes every possible kind of sense, that’s the bitter truth of it. Jim has been building a loving, trusting relationship with Spock for seven years now, and McCoy only stopped trying to skewer him six months ago. 

McCoy hides in his quarters for the better part of the next duty shift, pleading intestinal turmoil and thinking of Natira. He could’ve stayed with them, the descendants of the Fabrini-- he could’ve helped them set up their new world. He wouldn’t even have had to wear the Instrument of Obedience. They would’ve been free of the Oracle in just a little more than a year. He should’ve helped them learn to govern themselves; he could’ve researched the computer’s memory banks and published an unimaginable wealth of knowledge. 

_Coulda, shoulda, woulda._

He can’t go back to Natira now; she’s no fool and she’d figure out damn quick he was only trying to soothe himself with second-best. She doesn’t deserve that kind of bullshit. …She hadn’t deserved it in the first damn place, back when he _didn’t_ realize xenopolycythemia wasn’t the only fucking thing he was running from.

McCoy sits down and stares at the bulkhead by his bed without really seeing it. It’s the wall he shares with Spock, damn it all, and he can picture what may or may not be going on over there-- picture it in excruciatingly clear detail. He’s seen Jim give Spock looks like that for years, and Spock’s obviously been looking right back. How long have they been together, right under his nose?

McCoy barks a bitter laugh. He knows this place in his head; he spent a long time wallowing here after Joss fucked around on him with Clay and Leonard left her. Not that he’s comparing Spock to Jocelyn; Spock didn’t undertake any obligations whatsoever to Leonard McCoy. Spock owes McCoy nothing-- after seven years of verbal warfare, he doesn’t even owe Leonard his friendship. 

No, there’s no logic to McCoy’s immediate descent back to the ninth level of jilted hell. No justification for it. Just his own stupidity, like always. Still, he’s here, and it’s a pretty goddamn shitty place to be. 

He has options. Getting the hell out of Dodge so he won’t have to watch and leaving them to it is the most sensible, most tempting one. He’s not a spring chicken anymore, but he’s a damn good doctor and just about any place would want him. He hadn’t had any trouble finding a new job after he left Georgia; Starfleet snapped him up right away and sent him to Capella IV to try to get them to adopt a more civilized medical infrastructure. He could resume that kind of humanitarian work or maybe go somewhere quiet and set up his own private practice. He could even ask for a transfer to another starship….

He has a performance review tomorrow with Jim. If he can get through it with a stiff upper lip, that’ll be a great place to start: with a fresh, shiny new report about how wonderful he is at his job, one he can tack onto the file with his cover letter and his _curriculum vitae._ Good old Bones, best doctor ever. Great guy; great friend. Best friend a Starship captain ever had. Except maybe for this particular captain’s first officer, who’s evidently turned into a friend with benefits.

Yeah. His only viable choice other than self-torture is to go and start fresh somewhere else. Maybe this time he’ll have enough damn sense to keep his eyes on his toes and his heart to himself.

*****

Jim’s glowing. It’s not just McCoy’s performance review-- that’s glowing too-- but he has that fresh-laid look. It makes McCoy feel like someone embedded iron filings in his muscles and bones, then turned on a powerful electromagnet that’s pulling him apart shred by shred. _Jesus Christ, when the hell did I get it this bad?_

The phrases are formulae he already knows; he tunes them out and fixes his gaze on the wall next to Jim’s head, enduring patiently and inserting nods in the right places.

“--particularly pleased by your efforts to improve interdepartmental relations--” he hears at random, and yeah, that means ‘thanks for playing nice with Spock.’ A coal of anger starts to simmer in McCoy’s belly and he launches a whole five-year mission of imaginary responses to that, starting with the notion of accepting a position at the Vulcan Science Academy and outdoing every damn one of them for stone-faced, indifferent professional competence, because he’s just had his heart carved out without anesthesia and he’d be plenty willing never to experience any inferior human emotions again, thank you very much. 

But wouldn’t that just be a special hell-- him trapped on a whole fucking planet full of Spocks? It almost makes him laugh out loud to think about it. He’d do better to set up a practice treating sex-related injuries on Risa. ‘Take three antibiotics, a high-powered painkiller, and try to avoid the reverse-cowgirl in the morning.’ He could get laid anytime he wanted and wouldn’t have to give a rat’s ass about anybody who provided a convenient orifice.

The fact that nobody he fucked would give a rat’s ass about him, either? That’s daunting-- but it’s not actually a step down from his current situation.

“Bones?” Jim is looking at him, head tilted, forehead wrinkled in a frown.

“Sorry, Jim. Just woolgathering.” A convenient lie occurs to him. “Worrying about how to phrase the questions for Spock’s sex survey.” _Yeah. He should add ‘Have you ever fallen hard for a superior officer? On a sliding scale of 1-10, how badly did it fuck up your entire life? Sorry, you can’t choose a number over ten.’_

Jim snorts, easily diverted. “Don’t let him hear you call it that, or all your good work will be undone.”

McCoy’s false smile freezes. Yes. _How quickly it can all come undone. One ‘green-blooded,’ one ‘pointy-eared,’ one ‘unfeeling computer’ and I’d be the same old xenophobic hillbilly asshole I always was._ Being nice to Spock was all just a manipulative ploy, right? Just trying to get him into bed.

One second of clear seeing, that’s all it takes. 

“I appreciate the good review, Jim.” He stands up, anticipating dismissal. “Shoot me a copy, will you?”

“Sure thing. Bones, Spock and I would like you to join us this evening in my quarters for dinner and cards.”

Jim is flirty, and as he grins a little and looks up through his lashes, the bitterness rises up and shatters McCoy’s patience like a bullet shattering a china plate. It’s not like he’s never noticed Jim before-- no, he knew he was attracted to Jim, who falls in and out of love like nothing Leonard’s ever seen. Yeah, he had a crush on Jim at first, too-- okay maybe he'd thought of it more than twice-- until he realized he wouldn’t last a week before Jim moved on to a new relationship. 

Somehow Spock’s figured out how to deal with that. Sonofabitch.

McCoy can’t bring himself to sustain the smile any longer. “Sorry, Jim-- I’ve got to hammer those survey questions into shape. We agreed to restructure the thing to include sexual relationships, so I’m way behind.” _Spending a whole evening hidden away from all help, just watching them flirt? How about that. There really are worse things than the hell in which I woke up this morning. Who’d have thought it?_

“You can let that slide for a couple of hours. I’ll make sure the science officer doesn’t ride you too hard.” Kirk’s smile turns lopsided, effortlessly charming. He’s absolutely confident.

The unintentional double entendre in Kirk’s phrasing is particularly unwelcome. Bones feels the rage that’s been glowing at his core flare, fanning dangerously high. If he’s not careful, he’ll take Jim’s head off with it. “Get Scotty or Sulu if you need a third for cards. I’ll come along if I get finished in time.” It means no.

“Nope. It’s gotta be you.” The smile is ridiculously flirty. Bones wonders if Jim has any idea how flirty he comes across. _Damn it, I should’ve taken about 10 milligrams of diazepam before I ever came up here._

“You’re gonna have to take a rain-check this time, Jim.” Bones lets himself out without official leave and makes himself scarce. 

*****

Part of why he was never gentle with Spock, McCoy now fully understands, was his own need for self-defense. When you keep someone at arm’s length, it’s pretty difficult for them to stick a knife in you. But he also understands that isn’t fair. He stuck this knife in himself. Spock had nothing to do with it. There’s no justification for lashing out at him.

Jim keeps trying to arrange for McCoy to spend time with him and Spock, but McCoy makes excuses, takes on responsibilities, manipulates his schedule, and evades the invitations. He evades both the individuals, too, as often as he can manage it. He sends the survey questions to Spock through ship’s email. They discuss revisions in text format or over the comm without ever meeting face to face. He gets Chapel to begin administering the questionnaires when the final form is settled. He gets very used to the inside of his cabin, and he’s damn grateful he shares his bathroom with Scotty, who lives on his right, not Spock, whose quarters lie immediately to his left.

He keeps on sending out his vitae, looking for just the right job opportunity. If he can’t find it, he’ll take a stopgap and keep looking. They’re due for some R&R coming up soon; the ship needs an overhaul and they’ll be at leisure on Starbase 7 while the repairs happen. He schedules a few interviews and decides to accept one of the offers, if he gets any. He can’t get the hell off of this ship fast enough.

*****

“You’ve been dodging your own survey for nearly a month,” Chapel tells McCoy when he comes back from Starbase 7 with five offers in his pocket and no fucking idea which one he’ll choose. “Everyone’s taken it but you. If we have holdouts, that reduces the validity of the data.”

“So do all malcontents,” McCoy tells her. “I’m both!” But she just snorts and shoves a padd into his hand. 

He takes it and glares down at the questions he drafted himself. 

_Have you ever engaged in a sexual relationship with another crewmember?_  
_With more than one?  
_ _Was the crewmember of lesser, equal, or greater rank?_

He tracks down through the questions, snarling. _No, I never did. Yes, I wanted to. Yes, it ruined my fucking life, thank you very much. 10/10 for shitty life choices._ He tries to think of Tonia Barrows, and wonders if she was as miserable then as he is now, but they hadn’t really been a thing. They’d flirted a little, that was all, before she got transferred. No, his answer is all about Spock. 

Damn it, if he’d accepted one of those job offers before returning, he could’ve told Christine where to shove this fucking thing instead of getting stuck taking it.

The questions are relentless; they’re merciless. He should know-- he designed them himself. He answers them briefly, venting succinct vitriol on the open-ended ones, filling in the text boxes with acidic fury. He’s mad as hell. When he’s finally finished he shoves the padd at Christine, glad they made the damn results confidential. 

“Are you leaving the Enterprise?” She asks him, taking the padd, and he blinks at her. “The captain came down here just after you left. He said something about you going on a job interview. He was so mad I thought he might have a stroke. You didn’t take your comm badge, or I think he’d have had you beamed back involuntarily.”

 _Fuck._ He shouldn’t ever have set foot back on board. McCoy glances at the badge, which lies abandoned on the edge of his desk. 

“Don’t get too comfortable. I’m pretty sure he told the transporter chief to page him as soon as you got--”

“Doctor McCoy.” Kirk arrives right on cue. His voice seethes with agitation and barely-concealed hurt. “I want a word with you immediately.”

McCoy gives Christine a level look, one that says _I know you used the damn survey as a ploy to keep me in one spot so he could find me, and there’s gonna be hell to pay whenever I get a chance,_ before turning to Jim.

“Can you explain this communication?” Waving a data padd, Kirk displays a letter from one of the men McCoy just met, who has apparently contacted Kirk to verify McCoy’s references and recklessly teased Kirk for being damn fool enough to let go of the best CMO in the fleet. 

“It’s a letter querying a former employer of mine to confirm whether he’d recommend his departing employee for a new position.” McCoy makes his tone as insolent as humanly possible. “I trust you gave the man accurate information.”

“Damn it, Bones! I told him you’re not fucking going anywhere.”

“That’s tortious interference,” Bones snaps. “It’s legally actionable anywhere in the Federation, _Captain.”_

“What the hell’s up with you?” Jim ignores the threat. “A month ago I’d have sworn you were perfectly happy aboard the Enterprise. Hell, you were even getting along well with _Spock._ Then for no apparent reason you suddenly refuse to be in the same room with either of us, and now I find out from a third party that you’re about to jump ship….” Jim’s eyes narrow. “What crawled up your ass and died, Doctor? I want answers.”

“Talk to my lawyer,” Bones grunts and stomps away, leaving Kirk at a momentary loss for words. He follows, though; Jim Kirk wouldn’t be Jim Kirk if he ever gave up.

“Bones.” Now Kirk starts bargaining; McCoy hears the cajoling tone appear right on cue. “I don’t have any idea what’s brought you to this pass. We’ve been friends for a long time. Don’t you think I have a right to hear why you’re upset and try to fix it before you make a choice like this? One you can’t take back?”

That’s genuine pain in Jim’s voice, and with it McCoy can hear Kirk’s honest confusion. Of course he’s got no reason to suspect his liaison with Spock would hurt Leonard so deeply-- but there’s no way in hell McCoy’s going to own up to wanting Spock. _No way in hell._

“Jim, since I set foot aboard the Enterprise seven years ago, I’ve nearly died by violence twelve times and by catastrophic accident a further six. I’ve contracted a fatal disease, I’ve been imprisoned on away missions, I’ve been shot, and I’ve been telepathically violated more times than I care to count. I’ve seen epidemics and infections that would turn my hair white if I let myself think about them. I’ve had my molecules scrambled time and time again in the transporter; I’ve seen dozens of people die senseless deaths. And you ask me why I’m not willing to spend another minute on this flying death trap?”

It’s a good ruse, as ruses go-- it’s the best he has. But it isn’t going to wash; Jim Kirk knows him too well. He only glares at McCoy, hard-eyed and incisive, until the rant winds down. “That doesn’t explain why you’ve been avoiding me... avoiding Spock. Which of us made you angry, Bones? What did we do? Neither of us has the first inkling, and believe me, we’ve discussed it.”

Of course they have. It probably made entertaining pillow-talk. Bones’s jaw sets, hard as steel. “Jim, let it go. I’ve made up my mind.”

“No, Bones. Not without an explanation. A real one.”

“If you can’t believe I want to live to see Joanna graduate from medical school, then I don’t know what the hell else to tell you.”

“Should I send Spock to ask? Will you tell _him?”_

McCoy can’t stop the flicker of hurt and fury that twists his mouth at the suggestion, and he curses himself when Jim sees it. 

“It’s Spock, then. Spock upset you.” Kirk casts around in the dark, hoping to pry something loose. “It must be a sin of omission, because he has perfect recall, but he can’t remember anything he did that would have served as a triggering incident. What didn’t he do, Bones? Tell me.” Kirk catches his shoulder and keeps him from turning away. 

“Fuck off, Jim,” Bones says, too tired to keep fighting. He dips his shoulder and twists away, escaping Kirk’s grasp. 

“For my part, I apologize. I’m sorry, Bones. Spock will tell you the same.” Jim sounds baffled and defeated. “He wants to talk with you before you go.”

 _Of course. Jesus Christ riding a billy goat._ McCoy considers making a break for the access catwalk and leaving all his belongings behind, but he won’t abandon his mementoes of Joanna. He’s got to go back to his cabin to retrieve them. Heaven help anybody who tries to get in his way after that.

He turns away from Jim, resolute, and stalks down to pack. He decides to take the offer that features the least likelihood of him ever having to come into contact with Starfleet personnel again.

Spock is waiting outside his door, arms folded, spare body reclining very slightly against the wall. He’s apparently been here for some time, then. Maybe his relaxed posture is intended to put McCoy off his guard.

It isn’t going to work.

McCoy attempts to go right past him without speaking, but isn’t surprised when Spock steps into the room right behind him, deftly avoiding the closing door.

McCoy hauls a duffel out of his closet and starts putting things in it. He decides to leave all his uniforms and Federation paraphernalia. He packs books, pictures, and personal effects, leisure clothing… he shoves it all into his bag, feeling Spock’s intent gaze boring a hole between his shoulder blades. 

“I preferred our relationship when you released your anger with me regularly in manageable increments instead of bottling it up and letting it destroy you from within,” Spock comments after a moment, watching McCoy with clinical detachment. 

“Don’t assume you understand me.” McCoy spits the words with lethal precision. Spock has it absolutely backward; McCoy’s never seen him put two and two together and come up with an answer this wrong. Of course, Spock’s not well-versed in the practical application of human emotional coping mechanisms; even Jim Kirk’s razor-sharp insights missed picking up on this one. “Because you don’t, and you never will.” He throws clothes into his duffel with a fine disregard for tidiness, then treats a photo of Joanna rather more gently. 

“What precipitated this response?” Spock presses him, more clinical than Jim; he’ll be harder to dissuade. “The change in your behavior coincided with the decision to expand our survey. Should I have volunteered to compose the additional questions?” Spock has a padd in his hand; he taps at it for a moment. “The results have now been tabulated, as the final crewmember has completed the survey. I looked forward to analyzing them with you.”

“Commander Spock,” McCoy says the words with care, tasting each one of them in his mouth, letting them roll over his tongue like good Kentucky bourbon. “You may take the results of that survey and insert them where the sun does not shine.” _Right next to Jim Kirk’s dick._ He barely bites back the last phrase.

That’s it; that’s all the restraint he has left. He zips the bag, glancing around to see if there’s anything left he can’t live without. He pulls open a cabinet and scowls at the souvenirs and clutter sitting inside. He’ll only take what he can carry; these will have to stay. He picks up a padd and presses his thumbprint to the sensor, then calls up his resignation papers, pre-signed. He holds the padd out toward Spock, who is reading his own padd, one brow raised.

“It appears the final holdout was a malcontent,” Spock says, eyes flickering back and forth across the display.

McCoy feels bile and terror rise in his throat; he’d planned to be long gone when those answers wandered across Spock’s desk. 

“Take it,” he grits through clenched teeth, stepping forward and thrusting his resignation at Spock. Spock merely tilts his head and raises a brow. 

“I am not inclined to accept your resignation at this time.”

“Damn it, Spock!” McCoy explodes before biting his tongue. He throws the padd onto the bed and turns to the door, but Spock has stepped between him and the portal, and he understands he isn’t getting out without a fight. 

Fine. If that’s what Spock wants, then McCoy can give it to him. Spock’ll think he’s a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest by the time McCoy’s done with him.

“Get the fuck out of my way.” 

“Tell me what is troubling you.”

“It’s my goddamn life, my goddamn career, and if I want off this fucking hell-ship, you have no right to stop me.”

“You are behaving rashly, and your reasoning process is flawed.” Spock goads him deliberately.

“You overbearing, over-confident, smug fucking control freak.” McCoy’s proud of that one once he’s delivered it; it doesn’t contain even a single reference to Spock’s racial heritage. He gives himself full points for both political correctness and pinpoint accuracy. “You self-centered, self-satisfied, self-righteous, judgmental asshole.” He chokes down ‘sonofabitch’ before it can escape; that’s too close to the things he used to say before. 

“Your inability to control your illogical human emotions--”

“Get out of my goddamn way before I amputate all your arms and legs,” McCoy hisses. 

“You are not strong enough to succeed in such an attack.” Spock displays the padd as if to distract him. “It is, of course, apparent who the final holdout was. Perhaps the answers I seek lie here.” His eyes move across the text. “You have stated here that your unwanted sexual attraction to a superior officer has injured your personal life and your career prospects, doctor; the degree rating you chose was the maximum possible. You have only two superior officers aboard the Enterprise, Leonard. It is obvious you are jealous because I am in a relationship with Jim.”

“Yeah.” McCoy rolls his eyes to the heavens. “Brilliant. You’ve discovered my secret longing to be the ten thousandth notch in James T. Kirk’s bedpost, Mr. Spock; congratulations on your superior intellect. _Now get the hell out of my fucking way.”_ He doesn’t look toward the bathroom, but it occurs to him that Scotty’s door will work just as well as his own. 

Spock doesn’t budge an inch. 

A feint’s what McCoy needs. “Fine. Have it your way. Have a seat and we’ll discuss it all in excruciating detail. Why you’re the only _logical_ choice for Jim.”

Spock’s eyes flick toward the seating area, and when he moves away from the door to join McCoy on the sofa, Bones makes a break for the bathroom. 

Spock’s too fast for him, though; he actually grasps McCoy’s upper arm as he slides between him and the bathroom door. 

McCoy looks down at Spock’s hand, raising a brow, then levels his most withering death-glare on the Vulcan. “Take your hand off me,” he says quietly. 

“You agreed too readily with my previous hypothesis, doctor.” Spock stands very close to him, far too close; McCoy can feel his heat and smell the faintest hint of spicy animal musk. “I believe you hoped to misdirect me. I have formulated a new one.”

“You’re so full of shit your eyes are brown.”

Paradoxically, Spock rewards the insult with one of those secret half-smiles. “This time I am correct. You altered your entire method of personal interaction out of consideration for my comfort,” he says. “You sought out my company. You must have observed my intimacy with Jim and were disappointed. You decided to withdraw since you believed I was not available to you. Perhaps Jim’s unavailability was a disappointment as well.”

“No.” Panic is rising, and fight-or-flight instinct has moved beyond flight and well into desperation. Spock hasn’t let him go and if he doesn’t back off soon, McCoy’s going to explode-- into violence, because tears aren’t a fucking option. 

“Jim and I have often discussed the possibility that you might desire to join us in time,” Spock says softly. “When it became apparent your improved attitude toward me represented a permanent development, we agreed to increase social contact with you gradually in order to investigate your receptivity. You should have accepted our invitations.”

“Like hell I--” McCoy blusters, but both Spock’s hands are on his arms, and Spock leans in, quite assured, to kiss him.

Leonard can’t stop himself; Spock is calm and strong and far more assured of himself in this than McCoy ever thought he might be. His mouth slants over McCoy’s, hot and demanding, and McCoy opens without thinking, suddenly greedy, sucking Spock’s tongue in and lashing his own against it as the rage and tension and fear and panic explode into this new outlet, into passion. He locks an arm behind Spock’s neck and struggles for dominance over the kiss.

Spock does not yield it readily; their teeth clash and McCoy tastes a hint of coppery metal, unsure of its source. Spock strains him close and McCoy feels his body curl around Spock’s, his leg lifting to lock behind Spock’s thighs, his other arm going around Spock’s neck. Spock turns him, pushing him up against the door, and if Scotty decides to use the head right now he’s going to think somebody’s torturing a puppy in the next room, because McCoy is moaning and whimpering with every thrust of Spock’s tongue. He’d be mortified at the high-pitched sounds he’s making if he could pause to be in his right mind, which he can’t. 

Spock groans into his mouth as their groins push together, and McCoy sinks his teeth in Spock’s lip by way of enthusiastic vengeance. This time the coppery tang definitely isn’t his own. Spock growls low in his throat, but doesn’t pull back. McCoy feels the ship shudder-- at first he thinks it’s his world tilting on end, but no, the engines are definitely powering up fast, a keening whine that pulses throughout the infrastructure of the ship. Enterprise is pulling away from the starbase. He tears his mouth free just in time to feel the dizzy push of acceleration into warp. 

“Damn it, Spock, what the hell--”

“Jim had no intention of permitting you to leave without discussing your decision with us rationally.” Spock trails copper-green kisses against his throat, the traces of blood drying cool on his skin. “If I could not convince you to remain, I was to delay your departure until he could remove the opportunity for its occurrence. He will, of course, allow your departure if you still wish it-- after the reasons for your desire to go have been properly addressed.”

“You evil, conniving sneak,” McCoy gasps, breathless; Spock grinds their hips together, his expression perfectly smooth despite the trickle of blood on his lip, despite the light of smug triumph lighting his eyes. “Both of you. You immoral, Machiavellian refugee from a home for pathological liars. You treacherous, scheming, dishonest-- _promiscuous--”_

Spock silences him with another kiss, hands cupping McCoy’s face, fingers trailing over his features-- his chin, his cheekbones, his brows and ears and eyelids. McCoy thinks the silvery amusement he feels pulsing between them as Spock’s fingers sweep across his bare skin might just be the Vulcan’s equivalent of laughter.

“The captain and I request the favor of your company in my quarters tonight, Doctor,” Spock murmurs against his mouth, pausing only to let his tongue swipe over McCoy’s lower lip-- a burning, sensual caress. “To negotiate the terms of your permanent... _position_ aboard the Enterprise.”


End file.
